


all the loving that a good man can take

by janie_tangerine



Series: trout fishing in Westeros [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Gay Character, Crack Relationships, Crack Treated Seriously, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Minor Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Post-Canon, Same-Sex Marriage, The Author Regrets Nothing, Wedding Night, Weddings, Wishful Thinking, asoiafpridefest, the happy ending jon c needs and deserves and that grrm will never give him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 14:57:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15099140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: “Gods,” he groans, “apparently we need to decide at least the following. Aegon, couldn’t we just —?”“No,” Aegon interrupts, “no small ceremony. Not after the tourney. So, what does the septon need to know?”“First of all, who out of the two of us is getting his cloak swapped and according to which reasoning so he knows how to apply it later,” he says. “Also, does that apply to how we’re going to sit at the feast? Do we have a bedding and in that case, do just men participate in it or women as well, and how should they be split in case?” He can’t believe he’s reading this out loud.“I can’t believe that’s his issue,” Brynden groans from the nearby seat.Jon decides that if anything they will get along splendidly, seeing how they feel the exact same way about this farce.Or: in which Westeros's first same-sex marriage is celebrated.





	all the loving that a good man can take

**Author's Note:**

> JDHLKJG SO y'all remember that time I wrote crackfic where the blackfish won jon c.'s hand in a tourney? HERE YOU GO HAVE A FOLLOW-UP FOR ASOIAFPRIDEFEST (pls go check it out on tumblr there's been great stuff u__u) where they actually do get married and I indulge my own wishful thinking and my crackship of choice gets a happy ending and hopefully gets nicely laid. I'm using this for the nfsw day and canon divergence day even if by now I'm late as hell ops /o\ I should manage another couple fics tho so stay tuned for that. u__u
> 
> Also: NOTHING in here is mine except the crack, the title of this fic is from Bruce Springsteen, the series title... is an admittedly terrible pun over Richard Brautigan's _Trout Fishing in America_ but guys when I found out that book existed I immediately went like '....... I should use it as the title for redfish stuff SHOULDN'T I' and... yeah. It's also found its way in the fic itself. I AM TERRIBLY SORRY MR. BRAUTIGAN, apologies. /o\ *saunters vaguely downwards*

 

1.

 

Thing is: Jon _should_ have figured out that after the whole tourney affair, there was no way his marriage — gods, he’s still not sure he can wrap his head around the concept that _he_ is _getting married_ — would be a small matter.

If anything, because it’s the _first_ time in the Seven Kingdoms that a noble _man_ marries _another_ noble _man_ and not noble _woman_ and as much as he tried to convince Aegon to not make a big deal out of it, he’s still Hand of the King and he’s _not_ marrying a commoner, either.

The only salvation was that Brynden wasn’t that enthusiast about grand, lavish weddings so at least they presented a united front on _that_ , but then the septon showed up with the _list of questions_ to address and Jon can’t believe what it is they have to deal with.

“Gods,” he groans, “apparently we need to decide _at least_ the following. Aegon, couldn’t we just —?”

“No,” Aegon interrupts, “no small ceremony. Not after the _tourney_. So, what does the septon need to know?”

“First of all, _who_ out of the two of us is getting his cloak swapped and according to which reasoning so he knows how to apply it _later_ ,” he says. “Also, does that apply to how we’re going to sit at the feast? Do we have a _bedding_ and in that case, do just men participate in it or women as well, and how should they be split in case?” He can’t believe he’s reading _this_ out loud.

“I can’t believe _that_ ’s his issue,” Brynden groans from the nearby seat.

Jon decides that if anything they will get along splendidly, seeing how they feel the _exact_ same way about this farce.

“I’m not done. Of course he will emend the usual speech to, uh, _reflect the situation_ , but he also wants to know who is giving whom at the altar because he’s going to do this _properly_ , or at least that’s what he means even if he was a lot more polite in his wording, and that’s it but honestly, can’t we just go North and do it in front of a —”

“Absolutely _not_ ,” Aegon says, “I have half of the Faith still grumbling about this change, so as much as I also find this incredibly dull, you will have to do it _here_. Still, I suppose that since it’s not _me_ getting married, you can decide on the protocol.”

Not what Jon would have liked, but fair enough. Better than _nothing_.

“Uhm,” he says, not quite sure of how to address the issue. “I guess we should go in order. Er, this whole _giving out_ deal might be an issue. I mean, it’s not like _either_ of our late fathers is still alive.”

 _And my only relative around is a nephew I’d sooner not invite_ , he doesn’t add.

“I’m too old for this,” Brynden mutters, “I can’t have my _nephew_ doing that. I vote that no one is waiting at the altar and we go together.”

“I’m _absolutely_ in favor,” Jon replies at once, feeling so relieved he could weep. That would solve the matter at once _and_ spare them any embarrassment.

“Well, that’s _unheard of_ ,” Aegon says, “but then again the entire wedding would be, so — good. You’re going together then. How about the cloaks?”

He looks at Bryenden, who shrugs and sends him a glance that says _I couldn’t care less_ , which Jon fully agrees with.

“Maybe we can just swap? I mean, it’s not like we’re… marrying into each others’s Houses,” Jon suggests tentatively.

“That would be ideal,” Brynden agrees immediately. “I am wholly in favor.”

“Fine. Cloaks are swapped,” Aegon writes down — right, _he_ has to reply to the septon _properly._ “Now, the feast and the _bedding_?”

“Does it even matter where we seat?” Jon groans. “I mean, I honestly could _not_ care less. I suppose that if it was a marriage where someone marries _up_ into another man’s family then he could take the bride’s place, but when it comes to _this_ wedding I don’t think it matters.”

“I will take the bride’s,” Brynden says a moment later. “You’re still Hand of the King, it makes sense you would get the other side. I cannot care less either, for that matter, but if it’s all for protocol, we might as well adapt.”

“Makes sense,” Aegon agrees. “So, the _bedding_?”

Brynden groans. Jon is sure he might have blushed crimson under his beard.

“Can we just… not do it?” Jon asks. “I mean, the prospect of being undressed by a number of young lords wouldn’t have been an appeal twenty years ago, it’s not _now_.” Twenty years ago, he wouldn’t have wanted to undress anyone but Rhaegar, and viceversa. “Never mind that I don’t know how comfortable they would be with it, and the prospect of being undressed by young _ladies_ is even less appealing.” At least he can say this openly, now.

“I agree,” Brynden says. “Anyone else can decide I suppose, but as far as I’m concerned I didn’t like being in the _crowd_ during beddings, I like to think I can walk to mine own bedchamber.”

Aegon nods. “Well, I suppose the bedding is the one part of this for which the septon will be glad to _not_ negotiate. I suggest you revise the list of guests because we will need to send ravens within days to make sure everyone is here in two moons, and I know you’ve been putting it off.” He’s trying not to laugh and Jon thinks that _maybe_ he should have raised him to not make fun of his — well, putative father, pretty much — but it’s not a thought that lingers long. Aegon nods at the two of them and leaves the room, and Jon lets out a breath of relief.

“I still say we should elope North,” Jon says after the door closes.

“Believe me,” Brynden agrees, “I wholeheartedly support that notion, but I don’t want to cause a diplomatic incident that people would undoubtedly dub _the second Blackfyre rebellion_ or something equally tasteless.”

Jon laughs — fine, that was amusing. And sadly not too out of the question. “True,” he sighs. “At least we can try to have a short feast. Honestly, eloping sounds better with every passing second.”

“We should have just done that after the tourney.”

“I have a feeling you’re right,” Jon says — it’d have been _way_ easier and more convenient. And maybe they hadn’t spent three months _getting to know each other_ , but given that after they did it turns out they actually did get along splendidly and the more they knew about each other the more going through with it sounded like a good idea… maybe they could have.

Still —

“Well,” he says, suddenly sobered up by the thought, “at least our sacrifice will make it easier for everyone else after? I mean, could you have believed it twenty years ago?”

Brynden’s face turns serious as soon as Jon says it, because of course he couldn’t, _neither_ of them could have.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “No, I couldn’t have. And while I despise the prospect of being a figurehead, maybe I can deal with this.”

Jon nods, thinking that right now he’s living in a world where _he_ can swap cloaks with another man, which means that others like them will be able to do it in the future, and maybe _another_ man like him, somewhere else, who’s in love with his own Rhaegar will be able to actually _tell_ him properly instead of keeping it for himself because of course he couldn’t even go as far as that back in the day. Maybe twenty years from now it will be the norm.

Suddenly, having to deal with all this wedding nonsense seems a lot less terrible than it had five minutes ago.

“Are you all right? You were staring at the list but I don’t think you were _looking_ at it,” Brynden says a moment later, sounding worried.

“Oh, yes, I was just — thinking, that’s all. So, do I _really_ have to invite my nephew?”

Brynden shrugs, looking down at the list again.

“Well, I have a feeling that if you don’t someone else will do it.”

“Damn it,” Jon groans. He’s met the lad once and he’s _immediately_ wondered how he grew up from the fairly sweet child he remembered to… well, the less than pleasant person he is now. But he cannot know that now, can he?

“But,” Brynden says, “you could sit him next to Brienne of Tarth and her husband.”

“Is there something I don’t know?”

“Right, you couldn’t know unless Sansa told you, but Lannister — er, Lady Brienne’s _consort_ , let’s say he might have punched your nephew in the teeth when he spoke ill of the lady. That story was fairly popular around Winterfell when I arrived there.”

Jon thinks he might want to hear more, but right _now_ , it doesn’t matter.

“Then they should _absolutely_ sit at the same table. I like the way you think, my lord.”

“If we have to do it, we should at least amuse ourselves some, shouldn’t we?”

Jon decides he’s _absolutely_ in agreement on this specific topic.

Maybe they can pay a few other people the same favor, he thinks as he looks down at the guest list and decides that maybe he won’t die of boredom before the next week is over.

 

2.

 

 _We’re going to need a new High Septon_ , Aegon decides as he takes in the sight of the man standing at the altar. He looks like he’s just swallowed a full lemon, but then again he _had_ protested and he never made a mystery of how much he disapproves of this turn of things.

Then again, Aegon thinks, no steps forward have ever been made by _any_ monarch through caring for the opinions of people whose minds are firmly rooted _backward_ , so the man will have to officiate this wedding and he will have to like it, and then Aegon will quietly start seeing if there is any chance of convincing him to retire and choose a younger, less _backward_ successor.

At least, the Great Sept is full to the brink — of course it is, given _what_ is going to happen shortly.

Still, he thinks he might want a second opinion.

“My lady,” he whispers to his left, where Sansa Stark is standing — she’s here both representing her brother (and Aegon’s) because he only just came back from the Wall after finding Bran Stark and couldn’t make time _and_ as the closest relative of Ser Brynden’s attending, since Lord Edmure couldn’t.

“Your Grace?”

“Am I wrong or the septon _really_ doesn’t wish to officiate this wedding?”

Sansa looks at the man for a while before nodding briefly. “I don’t think you are, Your Grace,” she replies. “Too bad, but then again septons don’t usually amuse themselves at weddings.”

“Fair point,” he agrees. “Still, I wish he would realize that putting up a front would be advisable.”

“Your Grace, if I may, I don’t think that neither my uncle nor your — _father_ , I suppose, would care a whim nor expect him to be happy about it. Let him seethe, it’s not as if he can refuse.”

… Fine, as much as Aegon might have told himself that people would eventually embrace his point of view on this specific matter, she’s probably right. Not everyone can do it quickly, he supposes.

“I guess you’re right on that, too. Too bad, though, I was hoping — it’s not important, forgive me.”

She smiles. “Nothing to forgive, Your Grace, but until they get here, it’s not as if I cannot listen to you if you wish to talk.”

“It’s nothing, but — well, I was hoping that whoever my, well, _father_ , married, it would be… well, I hadn’t really thought the angry septon would be a part of it.”

“Your Grace, I think he appreciates that you made it possible at all. Same as my great-uncle does.”

“Does he?”

“Oh, if I remember the words right, he said _I hated the whole mummer’s farce, but it means other people won’t have to go through what I did then I’m more than glad to act in it_ , or something close. Really, I doubt it could have been perfect, but you did your best and I’m sure they will not mind.”

She’s right, Aegon knows that — hells, _all_ of them went through a lot worse than an angry septon at a _wedding_ , but still, it’s somewhat irking —

Before he can answer her, though, finally the doors open, so he schools himself into silence and Sansa does, too, and the septon’s face becomes even more stony.

He can _definitely_ hear Jaime Lannister whispering _he’s going to drop dead before this is even over_ three lines behind him, and then he shuts up after his wife most likely hit him in the side, but it’s not as if he can disagree with that notion.

The man _really_ looks like he won’t last for the entirety of the wedding, not as both men walk in side by side. Aegon glances at the faces around them — some people seem amused, some people are most likely trying to not show any emotions whatsoever and any relatives of people who got beaten at the tourney look livid. Fair. Exactly what he had expected.

Meanwhile, the soon-to-be-lord-husbands do definitely look like they want this to be over and done with as soon as possible, _but_ they also took the occasion seriously. The cloaks are finely sewn — Sansa did her great-uncle’s and she’s very much proud of it — and they both picked sober gray clothing underneath. _Definitely_ not a choice to impress, but Aegon figures neither of them wanted other people to talk about how _grand_ a wedding it might or might not have been.

The septon clears his throat.

He also _speaks_ like he’s swallowing a lemon. From his place in first row, Aegon can _definitely_ notice that the both of them look like they just want to laugh in his face but _don’t_ , and then _he_ wants to laugh at the grimace appearing on the septon’s face when they swap cloaks and carefully tie each the knots. Both of them look good in the other’s red, Aegon thinks, and Tully blue _definitely_ compliments Jon’s eyes and hair, and then he can see that Sansa is biting the inside of her cheek to not burst out laughing at the tone the septon uses to say that they might kiss after _pledging their love_ — that sounded more like a funeral, but he figures _everyone_ had taken that into account.

They kiss.

But until now they’ve done everything _very_ soberly. They didn’t even touch when they arrived at the altar, didn’t speak out of turn, didn’t even nod out of turn. _But_ when he says that, instead of exchanging some chaste kiss, they do it _for real_ , and for _long_ , and the disgusted face the septon pulls the moment he realizes tongues were involved makes Sansa laugh for real and Aegon _almost_ follow, but it’s not as if anyone is paying attention to _them_.

When they move back, both look at the septon with a certain satisfaction before thanking him for the service and leaving the sept at once.

“Well,” Sansa wheezes, “that was exactly how I pictured it going.”

“I think,” Aegon grins, “that I shall need a new High Septon soon, indeed. May I walk you back to the castle, my lady?”

“Gladly,” she tells him, giving him her arm.

At this point they just have to get through the feast, but for now, he decides, Westeros’s first wedding without brides was an almost complete success.

He thinks he should like to see if septons will be still _this_ bad about the matter in twenty years.

Most likely not.

 

3.

 

If anyone had told Brynden Tully some twenty years ago that his refusal to marry that caused him to not talk to his brother until he died would have ended up actually _marrying someone he wanted to marry_ and staring down septons after winning the guy’s hand in a tourney, he’d have asked them how drunk they were.

That person would probably have laughed for a long time seeing him and Jon flee the feast as discreetly as possible the moment someone brought up the _what about the bedding_ question, but as they run upstairs he decides that he’ll be the last person to complain.

That said —

“Well, ten years ago the last thing I thought might be in store for me would have been _fleeing my own marriage feast_ ,” he says as they finally reach the top of the stairs.

“I _know_ ,” Jon agrees, sounding as amazed as Brynden feels. “But honestly, if they hadn’t mentioned _that_ , I think I would have flown it regardless soon.”

“Gods, _yes_ ,” Brynden agrees, “I will be glad to not be stared at for this long for the rest of my life.”

Jon visibly nods as he opens the door to what Brynden presumes are the new Hand’s quarters after the tower burned down during the war — he has never been _here_ because they didn’t want to risk the septon getting somehow angrier about the situation, so he wouldn’t know. “Right, it was definitely enough for my entire life. Do come in, maybe if we lock the door no one is going to try and ask for us to go back down and follow protocol.”

Brynden does it at once, taking off his cloak and glancing around the room. It’s large, though not as grand as he remembers the Hand’s quarters being from the one time he saw them, years ago. There is a large bed on the side, with what looks like a red velvet cover draped over it, a spacious desk near the window, books scattered around it along with quill and paper, a mirror on the side and an averagely-sized wardrobe. Of course, there’s a Targaryen sigil hung over the bed, but it’s not as if he had expected for it _not_ to be.

He shrugs off his white and red cloak — it’s _exquisitely_ sewn but Seven Hells, it’s _hot_ in here, especially since the fire in the chimney had been burning from long before they walked inside. Fine, it’s still winter, but in between that and his heavy clothing, he thinks he can do with losing some.

He puts it on the nearest chair and notices that Jon is doing the exact same thing — he has just folded and put away his red and blue cloak, too, and for a moment Brynden feels like he’s imagining it, the last thing he had imagined in his entire life would have been for someone else to wear a Tully cloak because of _him_ , but from the way Jon’s staring at him, he has a feeling it’s a mutual sensation.

“Is it just me,” Brynden says, “or we could use some wine?”

“ _Please_ , it’s not just you,” Jon agrees at once. “There is some in the small cupboard near the desk.”

Brynden nods and goes to get it. Indeed, there’s a flagon of what looks like excellent Dornish red and a couple of cups; he pours generously into both, puts the flagon back in place and takes both cups, handing one to Jon, who’s standing next to the bed and takes it with a nod.

“Gods, hasn’t this been a damned long day. So, shall we…?”

“To what?” Brynden smirks. “Hopefully being in the top of a very long list?”

“I could _absolutely_ drink to that. And to a new High Septon.”

“Never heard truer words,” he smiles as they toast. He takes a sip. Well, the wine is _excellent_ , and he’s about to ask if they should refill before they make plans when someone bangs _loudly_ on the door.

“Yes?” Jon asks, thankfully not choking on the wine.

“Apologies, my lord, we were merely checking where you had ended up.” Wait, who’s _that_?

Jon groans. _My nephew,_ he mouths.

Oh, _right_ , Ronnet. Brynden figures he did _not_ appreciate being seated with Lannister.

He shakes his head and heads for the door, opening it for a fraction.

“Can I help you?” He asks, sounding absolutely not pleased.

Brynden glances outside. There are a number of young knights standing outside it.

“No,” Ronnet replies, “but someone was calling for the bedding and we noticed neither of you was in the room, so we were sent to check if everything was going all right. I suppose it is?”

Brynden can _definitely_ hear that he’s implying that neither of them might have stayed for the bedding because of the supposed humiliation of it and because neither of them is the youngest person in the castle.

Well then, if they really have to be nosy, he supposes there will be no harm in showing them exactly how he won that tourney. He takes off his shirt and vest quickly while Jon tells them that they _did_ say no bedding was happening, and then he clears his throat.

“Ser,” he says, opening the door wider and making sure _all_ of the people near the door see him shirtless, “maybe we did skip the bedding because we had no time to lose and we figured that since you young men most likely prefer entertaining yourselves with the ladies we wouldn’t waste yours, either. Will you require a bloodied sheet after, too, or we can do away with that specific custom? Because with the right precautions, no one has to _bleed_ , if you understand what I’m saying.”

Admittedly, Brynden takes great pleasure in seeing the man turn as red as his beard before he stammers some apologies and runs off with the others.

He shakes his head as Jon closes the door. “Sorry about that,” he says, “but I figured it was the quickest way to have them leave.”

“Please,” Jon says, “do _not_ apologize. And if I may be so bold, you do not have to put that shirt back on.”

Brynden _has_ to smile at that. “I don’t?”

“No,” Jon says, “ _definitely_ not.” He’s definitely staring, which — is _nice_ , all right? Not that Brynden’s ever cared much about his looks beyond staying fit as long as his body would allow it, but he also hasn’t been with anyone in a very long time and it’s certainly not a bad thing to be stared at. Especially from the man you just _married_.

“I was about to ask,” he says then, “what plans did we have. Because really, I hadn’t thought this far, but if you want to go through with the bedding, far from me to say no. All the contrary.”

“ _All the contrary_?” Jon grins.

“My lord,” Brynden says, “if it wasn’t for this bloody protocol, I think I would have liked seeing you without a shirt a _long_ time before now. And I haven’t been with anyone in a very long time _and_ I also certainly didn’t enjoy being celibate all that much.”

“And what if I said that I also haven’t been with anyone in a _very_ long time and the best I ever had was with a, uh, friend who _knew_ it was just an arrangement?”

Brynden sits down on the bed, moving back the cover and kicking off his boots.

“Then I don’t know what are we waiting for,” he says. “We _are_ lawfully married and all now, aren’t we?”

Jon shakes his head, taking off his shirt as well. And fine, they haven’t seen each other naked _yet_ , but Brynden can see that he had imagined correctly — he _is_ toned under his clothes, and there’s still a trail of red hair starting from his stomach going downwards. Sadly his own are mostly grayed, but he has this feeling Jon doesn’t mind whatsoever.

“We are,” Jon says, moving closer to the bed, taking off his shoes, “and I’m not quite sure I believe it, but I think I am not going back on it.”

“Good, because I am not either,” Brynden says, and figures he’ll save everyone some time and unlace his own breeches — Jon does the same the moment he understands what he’s aiming for, and then he takes a last sip from his forgotten glass of wine one the table before coming back towards the bed, giving Brynden a full view of his back, all muscle, a few battle scars on the sides and if he’s not wrong there are freckles scattered all over the top, and he still has a fairly strong tan most likely thanks to the Essos sun.

He puts the cup back on the table, then heads for the nightstand on the other side of the bed.

“Gods,” he says, “I just hope that having that that conversation _once_ was enough.”

“With whom?”

“… The person that was in charge of _making sure we had supplies_ ,” Jon groans, but then he comes out of it with what looks like a small jar and places it on the nightstand with a nod.

 _Well_ , Brynden gets why he was hoping he wouldn’t need to have that conversation twice.

“Is it what you asked for?”

“Indeed it is. And about _who_ should use it —”

“I think,” Brynden interrupts him, “that this is the time where I inform you I quite enjoy it both ways and right _now_ I have absolutely nothing to argue if you wished to use it on me.”

Jon smiles. “There is enough for a couple of rounds,” he says. “Maybe we should _both_ use it and I should go first.”

“My lord, I like how you approach your _marital duties_ ,” Brynden says, lying down on the bed fully, his breeches and smallclothes forgotten on the floor, and a moment later Jon has moved on the bed from the other side, about straddled him and crushed their mouths together, and they _have_ kissed before, more than once, and all those times were definitely a confirmation that joining that tourney was the best decision he ever made, but right now there’s a hunger to it that wasn’t there before, and maybe it’s because there’s no awkwardness left (like the first time when Brynden had wondered if he had somehow went back to his squiring years), or maybe it’s because the reality that they can do this when _the entire castle knows they’re doing it_ is finally sinking in, but it doesn’t change that they kiss for a _long_ time, and hard, and neither of them tries to be silent while they do it, and Jon’s hand might lack some fingers but he certainly can grip at his hair _hard_.

Not that Brynden can’t grip as hard at his waist, and they roll over switching positions a couple of times before they settle again with Jon on top of him, his kiss-swollen lips bright red in the candlelight as he leans back to take a breath or two.

“Hells,” Jon says, “I think we should be louder.”

“I am not holding back any,” he replies. “But yes, I think people should know we are being extremely serious with our, hm, _marital vows_.”

“Good,” Jon says, reaching out for the jar, but he barely dips his fingers inside before he reaches down, sliding over so that his cock is lined up with Brynden’s, and oh, does he want to —

He takes them _both_ in hand before he can finish that line of thought.

Then he starts _rubbing_ with the fingers he had coated in oil and right, maybe they won’t hear him moan _below_ , but surely if any maid was outside the room she would have.

“That — do you think you might need a hand?” Brynden asks.

Jon grins. “The jar is right there, if my lord wishes.”

Brynden reaches over and does the same, dipping his fingers quickly before his hand joins Jon’s and _hells_ , he’s not eight and ten anymore and it takes longer to get hard now than it had back in the day but he’s not _that_ old yet, and in between the two of them, it doesn’t take _that_ long to get to the point where he can feel _exactly_ how hard Jon is under his fingers and viceversa — they move apart, his cock ending up finding friction against Jon’s thigh, and he moves back with a moan just as Jon’s hips grind downwards —

And then they stop at once when the hear the bed creak, Jon’s hands grabbing at the headboard and Brynden’s at his hips.

“Does _that_ happen often?” Brynden croaks, and _hells_ but his voice sounds way deeper than usual. Given that his throat feels fairly constricted right now, it’s not a surprise.

“No,” Jon says, “ _that_ never happened before.”

“Is — is it made of wood?” Brynden grins.

“No, it’s iron,” Jon replies, understanding dawning in his pale blue eyes a moment later.

“Well then,” Brynden says, “if it is, then it’s not going to break, is it?”

“Not likely, my lord.”

“Then _please_ keep in mind I am not likely to break, either.”

Jon closes his eyes and laughs for a moment, and then shakes his head as he reaches out for the jar, still bright red hair plastered to his forehead. “Oh, I will,” he says. “You can _be assured_ of that.” Then he dips two fingers in again, but not just for a moment. Brynden just smiles and leans back, opening his legs — Jon pushes a pillow under his back with his clean hand a moment later, then moves back on his knees and pushes a finger inside, _slow_ , which Brynden’s plenty thankful for since it’s been a _hell_ of a long time since he was with someone on his back, and he takes his sweet time opening him up, but when he’s satisfied with it he coats his fingers in oil again and shoves them in without too many ceremonies.

 _Good_ , because he never said no if it was a bit rough.

He moans in encouragement as it happens again, and _again_ , until he’s digging bruises into Jon’s back as he meets his thrusts, and it’s been only his _fingers_ for now, gods.

“Fuck,” he blurts after Jon went in deep enough that he had made him writhe, “it’s a _pity_ you haven’t been with others in a long time, let me tell you.”

“For me or for them?”

“For _them_ , surely,” he says.

“Well, that would make a man feel flattered,” Jon says, taking his hand away, and then he moves back, lining up, and gods he’s _hard_ under all that red hair right on his crotch, and Brynden’s hand goes to a knife scar on his hip as he spreads his legs a bit farther, giving him better access.

“Should I —” Jon starts.

“Just do it already,” Brynden grins, and then Jon pushes in all at once and he doesn’t even try to keep himself from screaming at that, and it was for entirely _good_ reasons.

“I think they heard that,” Jon grins, not moving, staying _there_ buried inside him for a long, long moment.

“I think,” Brynden manages to say, even if his throat is starting to feel sore, “that they should hear the bed instead.” He moves his legs upward, hooking them behind Jon’s thighs, canting his own hips upwards.

“Gods,” Jon says, moving back slightly, “ _gods_ , yes,” and then he moves back and thrusts in, out, in, out, with enough force that the bed creaks _loudly_ with each single one of them, and Brynden’s not sure he’s going to last very long at this point because he’s too busy enjoying _every_ single thrust — he doesn’t tell Jon to go harder just because he has a feeling he _couldn’t_ , but hells, he’s going to come sooner rather than later and from the way Jon’s moaning above him he has a feeling he’s not going to be the only one. He also looks _this_ close, and his eyes look a darker blue than usual before he leans down and they kiss again just as he gives another thrust, and then another, and then he feels Jon’s whole hand reach down in between them while the other one grabs at the back of his head — Jon takes him in hand a moment later, jerking him off once, twice, and a moment later he feels Jon go slightly rigid before he gives one last, deep thrust, and he’s coming inside him while Brynden’s coming all over his hand and _fuck_ , it feels good, it feels better than any sex he remembers having up until now, and a moment later Jon has kissed him again right as the bed gives another long, dangerous, _loud_ creak, and at this point he’s _way_ beyond coherent thinking and so he just kisses back with all the enthusiasm he can put into it, and there’s a _lot_ where that came from, before he stops thinking altogether and just worries about how _good_ it feels and about how soon they can do it again.

——

Not long later, they’re both lying down on the dirty sheets on their backs, his hand loosely grasping Jon’s fingerless one, in between the both of them.

“I think,” he says, “that your nephew isn’t going to ask for the bloodied sheets tomorrow.”

“I think,” Jon grins, “that we should give them the sheets anyway. I just — this is probably the worst moment to bring it up, but I figure you should know something.”

“Is that about —” He starts, figuring that if Jon is getting worried about bringing up Rhaegar Targaryen he wouldn’t begrudge him _that_. He can understand it well enough.

“Yes and no. I mean, I am not doing comparisons, I am just saying that back in the day, I knew that there was no hope that he might — want me back, you know.”

 _Too bad for him_ , Brynden doesn’t say. It wouldn’t be fair and if Rhaegar Targaryen couldn’t see what was right in front of him, his loss.

(He had joined that tourney because Jon had sounded _interesting_ and same as him, not like someone who cared much for protocol or appearances, and his quite lovely looks hadn’t hurt. Then he had found out that other than that he was levelheaded, that he was _easy_ to talk to, that he could definitely laugh over terrible jokes they both heard during the Rebellion back in the day, that he would have died for his cause without blinking and that he hadn’t been joking during their first conversation — he _had_ loved Rhaegar Targaryen without stopping for a moment for most of his life and he couldn’t _not_ admire someone with that kind of devotion in them.

He had thought, _this is the kind of person I could love_ , though he hasn’t said that yet. But he remembers Cat having told him how she had felt about _her_ lord husband, back in the day, and he couldn’t help thinking that it sounded eerily similar.

Still, he’s not sure he can say all of that yet, same as he could barely bring that conversation up to Sansa when she came to give him his cloak.

 _I wish your mother could have been here,_ he had told her. _I think she would have understood_.

Sansa had wiped a few tears and nodded and said that she was sure her mother would have.

Maybe one day soon he will share, but not right now.)

“And?” He presses.

“I might have had a few — I might have thought a few times of what I would do, if he _did_ and if loving a man was treated the same as loving a woman.”

“Did your imagination conjure making sure the entirety of court knew how well you would have treated him in bed?” He asks, and Jon laughs at that, shaking his head.

“Maybe. Seems like I _did_ do it, though. And believe me, I’m not thinking that it would have been perfect if _he_ was here. It wasn’t meant to be. _This_ is, though,” he grins, and Brynden has to lean up on his arm, moving closer.

“I suppose that now you want to make sure everyone else hears how _I_ treat you well in bed?”

“Why not,” Jon grins back, and —

Well, it’s their bloody wedding night, that’d be the least, wouldn’t it?

Brynden moves on top of him, crashing their mouths together, and thinking about what he could do to make sure the bed creaks as loudly as possible, again.

But they do have all night for that, he’s sure they will find a way.

——

The next day, when they get downstairs to break their fast, every single person who was outside their room the night before not so quietly flees it. All except Ronnet, who can’t, but is looking fairly embarrassed as Jon sits down next to him.

“I suppose you will not need to see the sheets, will you?” Brynden asks, and he about chokes on the water he was drinking.

“There might not be the need,” Ronnet finally says, looking at Jon rather than _him_. “That said, was there the _need_ to let everyone hear that you, uh, that you —”

Jon smiles a grin that Brynden decides is _not_ at all meaning good news.

“That I was _fishing for trout_ last night, my lord?” He says, reaching down for a lemoncake.

Ronnet excuses himself after almost choking on his water again, Sansa lets out a very unladylike giggle, Aegon is obviously drinking to stop himself from doing the same and Jaime Lannister bursts into laughing from another table entirely.

“Is that how we’re calling it now?” Brynden whispers as they both sit down.

“If that’s how you like it,” Jon replies, sounding very satisfied with himself.

Brynden thinks he doesn’t mind it _whatsoever_ and that he’s very much looking forward to finding out how married life is like. Hells, _they_ will probably have to figure it out, but he has a very good feeling about the odds, and he’s sure he’s not the only one in this partnership. Not at all.

 

End.


End file.
